XXXIX
Syn
C old air batters my face to the point I can barely feel it. Despite the low temperatures outside, I’ve driven the whole journey with the heat up and the windows down, hoping fresh air will clear my mind.
My head hurts.
Maybe from a hangover, but as it’s my left temple that’s now sporting a purple and black lump, it’s more likely from where Tori smacked me in the head with that damn bottle. There’s a lingering ache in my balls too.
It’s not very often that I’m so unaware of what’s happening that I allow an attack like that to happen, but I’ll begrudgingly acknowledge that in that moment, Tori got one over on me.
The problem is that for the first time, I didn’t want to chase after her. I’m not even considering what her punishment will be when she returns.
If she returns.
Maybe last night, I inadvertently fulfilled the orders I was to carry out…
Gripping the wheel, I glance down at the speedometer and ease my foot off the gas. The GPS said the journey would take a little over an hour, and I’m nearly at my destination in under half that time. Not that I care about a speeding ticket—they can easily be bought off. But the road is starting to get busier, and I don’t have the patience to deal with the asshats who can’t drive in anything vaguely resembling bad weather.
After waiting until I could finally walk, I went back to my bedroom and had a long shower. But even after that, I still couldn’t sleep. I was awake when Royal and Gemini returned home, sometime after four, and I was still awake when the sun finally rose, several hours later.
At some point in between, I made a phone call, and the moment I got the response I wanted, I picked up my car keys and left.
But from the moment Tori left, even until now, I haven’t been able to stop thinking.
No, that’s not quite right.
It took the shower to ease my body, allowing for some of the anger to ebb before I could focus on other things…
JP’s murder.
Just because I haven’t actively sought out all the information and details about his death doesn’t mean I don’t know what happened.
Or, at least, I thought I did.
JP had been brutally murdered—a fatal injury to the back of his head—and the guy who did it confessed. I didn’t need to know more than that. Like I said to Tori, I didn’t want to know more than that. JP was dead, and nothing was going to change that, but digging into things could hurt me.
Yet I was still suffering from the pain I felt on a daily basis.
Maybe this was a trick.
A nasty, vindictive last-effort attempt to twist the knife before she left…
But last night, it was me who revealed too much.
I didn’t lie. If my father had told me to kill Tori instead of just making her leave, I would have.
My freshman year, after I passed my own initiation into the XXXVII, my father had taken me to an apartment building in the Bronx. We waited outside for a couple of hours before a woman, not much older than me, left the building. My father made us follow her into a subway, carefully sticking to a particular route across the platform that he later told me kept us hidden in blind spots.
As a train passed through the station, he pushed her in front of it.
The papers called the death a tragic accident before the story broke that she was about to be investigated for fraud. Then it was suicide.
I’d walked into Gemini’s room and found him with the article on the monitor. Turned out he’d hacked her computer to plant evidence. Royal connected the dots when he said she worked at a company linked to the du Ponts and his family. She was about to go to the FBI to provide evidence which would have linked the company to illegal campaign funding.
We were all told later, that if an order is given, we follow it. Even if it’s murder.
After I killed her, my father said it was unlikely I’d have to get my hands dirty like that again, given my mapped-out future. It’s probably no longer outside of the realm of possibility to have a president with a criminal record—even murder—but it’s easier to keep approval ratings up if you have a seemingly clean background.
I had to be incredibly na?ve if I didn’t think I’d be able to get through a full term as President of the United States without being responsible for anyone’s death.
Back then, I asked my father what would happen if he’d refused to kill her. He just shrugged and said someone else would carry out the orders. Then he implied that if I got orders like that myself, disobeying wasn’t an option.
What I told Tori was just the tip of the iceberg.
Of course, I know better. I shouldn’t have said anything. But that girl is the only one with the ability to get under my skin enough to make me slip up. Anger and alcohol are a terrible combination.
Thankfully, if she were to run her mouth, I’ve not said enough that would let anyone believe anything other than her being crazy. Twisted with revenge, enough to start creating poor conspiracy theories with no evidence to back it up.
And if she didn’t shut up, someone would make her.
But last night, she made it so I couldn’t get my brain to shut up.
JP was killed while I was still in high school.
I knew JP was going to be president one day—that was made clear when I was in middle school. Admittedly, back then, I thought it was just one of those things people say. That he had the ability to do it. Dedication, hard work, and a little luck would make it an achievable dream.
It wasn’t until I was told I’d take up that mantle when I discovered that he—that I— am going to be president one day.
2040, to be exact.
When I found out JP was dead, I cried. I locked myself in my bedroom and hid under the blankets.
The following morning, Father literally dragged me out and forced me to sit at the breakfast table like nothing had happened. I wasn’t hungry, but I was told if I didn’t eat, he would force the food down my throat.
Then, as I was trying to eat my toast like it wasn’t making me want to throw up, my father told me if I was to continue being that weak and pathetic, he’d give me something to cry about. There are still scars on my back from when he carried out the same threat when I was eight, after my dog died.
After that, I did everything I could not to think about what happened to JP.
Last night, or rather, this morning, still unable to sleep, I turned on my laptop and started looking.
The Keyinghams aren’t famous. We’re not a household name. At least, not in the traditional sense of a celebrity. In the right circles though, everyone knows who we are. And it’s almost impossible to go a week without our name appearing in the news.
JP’s death—and Cole’s murder trial—garnered a lot of attention. Article after article. Some commented on the outfits my mother wore to court, but mostly about how JP’s loss would affect the Keyingham empire. Politics and his future role. Finance and the billions of dollars of various Keyingham companies…
And yet, after a couple of hours of scrolling, I couldn’t tell you how he died or why.
I only thought I knew how he died because my father told me it was blunt force trauma to the back of his head. That Cole Reynalds had attacked him. But the more I think about it now, the more I realize I don’t know what he attacked him with.
Blunt force trauma could be a bat. A hammer. A rock. Hell, getting run over by a car is classed as blunt force trauma.
Not once have I ever really thought about what caused his injury.
The other thing missing in every article is the why.
That. That was the reason I wasn’t able to sleep, and that I’m currently driving upstate.
I pull into the parking lot, find a space in the almost empty lot, and then walk straight over to the gates. Visiting hours aren’t until the afternoon, but my phone call this morning guaranteed entry.
After I’m ushered through security, I’m led to a private room. Inside, there’s only a table and two chairs, both of which are firmly bolted to the floor. Instead of taking a seat, I stand by the “window” made up of thick mottled glass cubes. I’m fairly certain if I could actually see through it, the view wouldn’t be the outside world.
I don’t have to wait long before the door opens, and my brother’s murderer walks in. The guards lead him to the table, handcuffing him to the bar that’s been put there for that purpose. Then they leave, closing the door behind them.
The only time I’ve seen Cole was on the day he was sentenced, nearly four years ago. Back then, he looked like any other eighteen-year-old college kid. Now, his face is half-hidden behind a thick beard and unkempt hair.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask him.
Cole stares at me with green eyes, which are eerily like Tori’s. “Yes.”
“Did you kill my brother?”
“Yes,” he says, without a moment of hesitation.
“How?”
The guy continues to stare at me, his expression remaining the same. He doesn’t move, but I do notice that his hands, which are clasped together, tense. “I hit him on the side of the head.”
“With?”
“A rock.”
I move over to the table, but I remain standing behind the chair rather than sit. “What did you do with the… murder weapon?”
“Threw it as far as I could.”
“What kind of rock was it?”
Cole lets out an irritated sigh. “Does it matter?”
“What kind of rock was it?”
“A rocky rock. Hard. Rough.”
Finally, I slide into the chair, not caring to hide my displeasure at how uncomfortable it is. He’s expecting me to ask another question, but I don’t speak. Instead, I just watch him.
I can’t believe I’m starting to think this, but I’m not convinced with his story.
After a moment, I see him glance up behind me, eyes switching between either side. My guess is he’s looking for a camera, but this room isn’t the standard visitation room. It’s one that’s given to prisoners when they meet with their attorneys, which means there’s no cameras or monitoring.
There’s another reason for my silence, though. My next question is one I’m not sure I’m ready to hear the answer to.
“Why did you kill JP?”
Cole seems to relax, sitting back in his chair as much as the handcuffs will allow. He shrugs. “I felt like it.”
There are people in the world who can—and do—kill, for no reason other than they want to. But whether it’s fun or self-defense, I expect there’d be some form of reaction. Regret, sadness, pleasure… something.
He gives me nothing but a glimmer. The briefest moment where he diverts his gaze instead of meeting me in the eye, and it’s not done because he’s showing how much he doesn’t care.
For years, I’ve imagined how I would react if I was ever left alone in a room with this guy, and no matter how elaborate the scenario played out, it would always end in one way.
Me covered in his blood.
I get up, take three strides to make it to his side of the table and then, as hard as I can, punch him in the face.
As he cries out in pain, I pull a handkerchief from my pocket, wipe the small amount of blood from my hand, and then walk over to the door. After a quick knock, the door opens, and ignoring the scene behind me, the guards allow me to leave.
I feel like I’m stuck in one of my dream scenarios as I walk back to the entrance to collect my phone and car fob. My expression is kept blank, and my mind is strangely quiet.
Until I look at my phone screen and the hundreds of notifications.